Dean wipes his tongue over the back of his arm, but can't get rid of the nasty acid tang. He digs his phone from under his pillow. It's ten minutes before he would have had to wake up anyway, so he lays there and blinks at the cracks in the ceiling. Up early with nothing to look forward to.

The whole building could crash in on his head and the only other person in the world who would know or give a crap is in the other room snoring so loudly he can hear her through the walls.

He begins to sing under his breath. "Happy birthday, fucking asshole … "

'Enough of that.'

He gets up to take a piss. The toilet clogs, just like every third morning, because the plumbing in this place is shit, just like Dean's entire life.

"No, no, no. Come on, please."

He considers shouting out that it's his birthday, for fuck's sake, but toilets don't usually respond to that kind of information. Filthy water rises until it's splashing his toes. "Aw, gross."

Of course, they don't own a plunger, because every time he asks for one, Jody says they won't be here long enough for it to make sense. Usually, he uses a hanger, but the water doesn't usually rise within seconds to the point that it starts flooding the bathroom.

Kneeling in a puddle of sewage, Dean holds his breath and digs around in the neck of the thing with his bare hand. His fingers squish something that can only be a mega-turd and he gags, which he fucking hates.

The only thing that keeps him from yacking all over the floor is the knowledge that he would have to clean it up.

Eventually, the water goes down. Another day in paradise.

Around noon, people start to break off into chatty pairs or groups of three. Sam pulls his bowl of salad out of the temperature-controlled bag and eats hunched over his work.

Jo is behind the door with her arms folded when Dean shuts his locker. He swings his bag onto his shoulder. "Joanna Beth."

She keeps pace alongside him, apparently still seething. "I texted you in second period and, like, ten times during math."

Dean halts and sighs down at her. "I left my phone at home."

She squints, obviously unsure whether to believe him or not. "On purpose?"

"I needed a break."

She shudders dramatically. "I would lose my mind without my phone."

"Some things are actually worse." 'Like chasing after some guy who obviously doesn't want to talk to you.' "I'll write you back tonight, okay?"

As he rounds the corner, he hears the loud, clanking thud of someone punching a locker. He assumes some jerk has lost his temper. As it turns out, it's someone inside of a locker, banging and blubbering for help.

A few people snicker as they pass. Nobody else seems interested at all. Dean knocks on the door.

"Oh thank god," the locker pants. "I'm think I'm going to hyperventilate. I'm mildly claustrophobic and…"

"All right, all right. What's your combo?"

Dean has been in high schools all around this great nation and one thing seems to be universally true: little guys get no respect. But the guy who spills out onto the floor is not little. He's as tall as Dean, but he's skinny as fuck and familiar. It's FUBAR, the same scrappy-looking kid Ash was picking on before. 'Again? Already?'

He's is on his knees, chest heaving in and out like he can barely catch his breath. Dean winces down at him. "You need to go to the nurse or something?"

"No. Oh. Thank you. Oh, thank you. Thank you so much." He crawls over and grovels at Dean's feet.

"All right." Dean steps away from his graspy paws. He watches the boy lean his weight against the wall and shakily pull himself to his feet.

"What's your name?" Dean looks in both directions to see if anybody is watching this madness.

"Uh. Garth, sir."

"Don't call me sir."

"Aren't you a football player? Sir?"

"Yeah."

"The guys say..."

"Well, I say, don't."

Garth's beady eyes get all wide, like that little dude, Dobby, in Harry Potter right after he gets a sock. That's what the kid looks like: some kind of overgrown house elf. Dean shakes his head. "Would you just … I don't know, man. Get out of here."

In the boys' locker room, Dean tosses his bag into the bottom of his compartment and starts to change. Ash pats his ass on the way out to the field. Dean stiffens, but doesn't say anything.

The second he joins his teammates at the starting line, the coach's whistle screeches and he motions. "Get over here, Smith."

The guys next to him laugh like idiots at whatever trouble Dean has gotten himself into.

"The rest of you, move out." Two quick tuts of the whistle and the rest of them take off.

Dean jogs over to the coach, cursing himself for whatever way he's fucked up this time. "Yes, sir?"

The old man looks pissed, too. His face is all scrunched up like he's taking a crap in his pants. "I need you to run into my office and grab something from my desk."

Dean stares at the key on the lanyard the coach has placed in his hand. "What is it, sir?"

"You'll know. Get it and come right back."

"Yes, sir." He jogs off obediently, wracking his brain the whole way. He had been falsely accused of throwing spitballs in English two days ago, but it was discovered to be another kid and Dean was let off the hook.

It's mostly been an uneventful day. Dean would much rather keep it that way. He hesitates at the coach's door before he opens it. He flicks on the light and stares stupidly at a chocolate cupcake with a single green candle. The coach's desk is otherwise empty, except for the name plate and a book of matches.

Dean just stares at it all: rainbow sprinkles; clowns on the baking paper. The matches are from McGinty's. Dean's never been in there, but he knows it's the dump where Jody goes after work sometimes.

He lights the candle and watches the flame flicker. Five minutes later - or twenty, or an hour, Dean couldn't really say - green wax drips and hardens all over the nut-brown icing until he puffs out the fire. His nostrils flare and he chews the hell out of his bottom lip. He scratches the corner of his right eye. "You fucking baby."

He peels back the clowns from the bottom and takes a small bite. It's a chocolate cupcake. What's not to like? Except that just the thought of it is choking him up. Jody ignores birthdays and Dean can't remember the last time anybody remembered. He can't even swallow around the golf ball in his throat and winds up spitting it into the steel trashcan. Bending down, he rifles around to shuffle some papers over it.

After a quick detour to the cafeteria to make sure Coach Winchester never learns that he's tossed the thing, Dean returns back to the field. He stands beside the old man, watching his teammates run the track.

"I know you like to be private."

Dean nods. "You didn't tell Jo?"

"I figured you would tell her if you wanted her to know." Coach Winchester doesn't turn to face him. He checks his watch and makes a few marks on his clipboard.

Dean considers saying 'thank you.' He wants to say it; knows he should. It feels like something is obstructing his windpipe again. He can't think of anything that would be worse than bursting into tears in front of his coach, except maybe bursting into tears in front of the team. A couple of guys are coming around the bend towards them. Dean nods again and takes off running.

Dean helps Mary pick tomatoes from the garden for a sauce, which they make from scratch to go along with the meatloaf, also from scratch. It's fucking delicious. He doesn't thank her for the cupcake and she doesn't mention it.

Dean walks home from the Winchester's whistling Back in Black . He is playing the solo on air guitar when he kicks the door shut behind him. The music stops when he comes face to face with the cell phone lying on the kitchen table like a hand grenade.

He shakes his head, willing himself not to touch the thing for just a few more minutes.

Dean checks the fridge and, by some kind of miracle, finds a six pack of Michelob Light. 'Maybe she did remember.' He treats himself to one and powers up his phone. Jody wrote that she might not make it home tonight. There are 6 messages from Jo Winchester. And 1 from Sam. Dean's stomach does a flip and he pours some beer in it.

He reads over Jo's texts and thumbs in a few quick answers. Then, he carries the phone to the couch, kicks off his shoes and opens Sam's message.

At 12:13 PM, he wrote:

SW: What class are you in now?

That was it. Nothing special. Nothing else. Dean studies it for a few seconds and tries to stop his stupid chest from feeling all tight. 'What kind of loser gets worked up over one sentence?'

He puts his phone down beside him and turns on the TV. Baywatch. That'll do.

At each commercial break, he taps the screen and looks at Sam's message again, like it's going to magically say something different. He falls asleep with the phone in his hand.

Carmen SanDiego is on at 3:32 AM, when Dean staggers to the bathroom to piss and brush his teeth. Back at the sofa, he kicks off his jeans.

Then, he texts Sam.

DS: U up?

Sam sets his mug on the desk with a quiet clink. As his computer loads up, he turns on his phone. It dawns on him just how much he had been hoping to hear from this kid. His heart skips when he sees he's got a message - that's not a good sign. Still, he can't help but smile as he types.

SW: Just had my herbal. So yeah, I'm up.

The reply comes in less than a minute.

DS: U smokn at 8 AM?!

Sam laughs out loud. His cubicle neighbor scowls over at him, as if there's a company policy against mirth. This is their first real time communication and with his suppressed giggles, Sam feels more like a teenage girl than an adult man.

SW: Tea

DS: Cffe drnkr mslf

SW: I could have guessed that

DS: Meaning?

SW: Let's just say, you made quite a first impression

DS: Do tell

Sam tilts his head back and forth, searches for just the right words.

SW: Self absorbed spaz

DS: Tell me wht u rlly thnk

Sam laughs out loud again. He apologizes to his frowning neighbor. Then, he gets up and takes his phone to the bathroom. With the stall locked behind him, he leans back against it.

DS: Wnt my frst mprssn of u?

He smiles.

SW: Desperately

The teacher is scribbling formulas onto the whiteboard. His classmates' heads are all down. The test lays out in front of him. Dean hasn't filled in a single answer. He hasn't even written his name.

He blinks down at his phone and types.

Sam stares down at his phone, smiling like he hasn't in god knows how long. His cheeks are starting to hurt with it. Then, he reads Dean's answer.

DS: Fucking beautiful

He feels like he's been kicked in the center of his chest, in the pit of his stomach, in his groin. 'This is not a good idea, on so many levels.'

Needlessly, he flushes the toilet. He slips the phone into his pocket, washes his hands and splashes cold water on his face. Sam peers in the mirror, finding no trace of what Dean had seen.

Enough time has passed to know that Sam has gotten the message. And that he isn't going to write back.

DS: Clrly nt mtual

'Oh well. Had to try.'

Sam taps his phone and glances at that message. He stares at those two words until the screen starts to go dark. Then, he taps again and studies them, steadying his breathing. Two words. He's losing his mind over two words. Finally, he shakes his head and huffs out his frustration.

He waits until it nearly fades before he picks up the phone and deletes every message they've exchanged today. He runs a rough hand over his chin. He needs a shave.

'The work's not going to do itself.'

This girl across the hall is a luscious cliche: the green and white cheerleader uniform, long dark hair, killer legs. There's a little meat on her, which probably contributes to that amazing rack. She's smiling at him like a warm slice of cherry pie and for once in his life, Dean Smith has no fucking appetite - at least not for what she's offering.

All he can think is: 'What is Sam doing now? Is he going to text back? Should I send another message? I could just write 'JK' or something like that. Is he ever going to talk to me again?

Probably not. Probably, I've completely blown it, because I'm a fucking moron.'

Dean manages a wink, gives the girl a 'maybe later' smile and shuts his locker.